As aware as I am that I still have much blogging to do about my trip (and I am reminded every time I open my blog dashboard because I created new posts with topics for each post I want to do and so there they are, silently mocking me and my lack of time every single time I open it up), I need to interrupt the regularly (overdue) scheduled Israel blogging to write my post on Jen Hatmaker's new book, For the Love!
I was BEYOND overjoyed many, many months ago when, after a friend sent me the link and suggested I apply, I applied at the very last minute and was given a spot on Jen Hatmaker's launch team for this new book. This was my first time to serve on a launch team (although time #2 came on the heels of that one and THAT book comes out tomorrow as well! blog on it to come!) and it was so much fun!
I think the first time I heard Jen was back in 2012 at the dotMom conference. (2011? Not even sure.) Anyway, she made the most powerful impression on me and I rushed back home to pick up a copy of her book called 7. To say that 7 changed my life is an understatement. I feel that it was a path I might have naturally been headed down, but that book was the catalyst that has driven nearly every activity and focus and passion since I read it. I followed it with her husband's (Brandon) book, The Barefoot Church. I know this blog is about Jen ;) but somehow, Brandon's book hit me even harder than 7 had.
Since that fall, I have heard Jen at least three more times and am currently reading Interrupted, the book that actually came before 7. It will shake you around a lot too! I am, unabashedly, a Jen Hatmaker groupie. And do you know why I don't feel weird about that? Because Jen Hatmaker is a Jesus groupie and everything she writes, says, and lives is testament to that fact.
For the Love is just... beautiful. It contains all of her poetic language, her depth of thought, and her unique way of being the vehicle that Jesus uses to drip His love all over you. It also contains her ridiculous wit, her hilarious commentary, and the strange ability she has to make you feel like you are sitting in her kitchen, chatting with her, through her writing.
I talk to my AP kids about classics. One of the criteria for a classic is that it must have multiple layers of meaning and appeal to a broad audience. This book does both of those things and so much more. Our launch group runs the gamut, from high school all the way to... a long way from high school. ;) Each person in this group has testified to having gotten so much from this book. You will NOT be disappointed if you purchase this book. You will laugh hysterically on one page and wipe at tear drops on the pages on the next. Honestly, the chapter she writes to her children is enough reason alone to purchase the book. As a teacher and a mom, I had to stop reading it in public because the other patrons of Superfly were concerned that I was suffering some sort of inner tragedy based on the heaving sobs I was choking back.
I'm doing a double giveaway for Launch Day. I want to randomly select two people, one to receive the book and one to receive a tshirt I designed with my very favorite quote from the book: Be Kind, Be You, Love Jesus.
All you need to do is sign up for Jen's emails OR, if you're already receiving those nuggets, just follow her on any social media platform (pinterest, Twitter, Facebook, Instagram). You can sign up for her emails just by entering your email address in the bar in the middle of her homepage. The link is http://jenhatmaker.com/home.htm . Simply leave a comment here to let me know you followed, including your email address so I can let you know if you win and get your mailing info. Drawing is only open to continental US. :)
Happy Tuesday, happy launch day!
Winners were: Lauren Haun (tee shirt since she already had the book) and Wanda Williams!
Thanks for playing, friends!
Just Look...
Tuesday, August 18, 2015
Tuesday, July 28, 2015
Doing Good versus Doing Nothing
We spent one entire day on resistance. When I teach resistance, the most commonly known example that my kids have heard of is the Warsaw Ghetto Uprising. And I do spend a day of class discussing that. However, resistance is so much more than armed resistance, than a fight against the perpetrators with sticks and knives and guns. There was a great quote that I heard in our studies on that day and it was, "Resistance doesn't have to be with a gun and a bullet. Sometimes, the easiest resistance is with a gun and a bullet."
I think about Ghandi, about Martin Luther King, Jr., about so many throughout history who have proven that sometimes the harder fight (and more effective one) takes the path of nonviolent resistance. Resistance in the Holocaust took on many forms other than that of partisan fighters... it was cultural, it was spiritual.
The mother who gave her piece of bread to her starving child... the artists who drew and painted with anything they could find on scraps of paper, rocks, walls, and fabric... the teenagers who scribbled poetry and journal entries on pieces of trash... the doctors in the Warsaw Ghetto who knew they were starving and so decided to do studies on themselves as they starved to death, leaving behind a study called Hunger and Disease in the Warsaw Ghetto: Non Omnis Moriar ("I Shall Not Wholly Die"), which was found after the Holocaust and used in medical schools for years afterward... the exams given to students in clandestine schools in the Lodz Ghetto because "God forbid we come to the end of this experience and have a generation of idiots"... the men who wore hats over their kipas so that, in saluting the Nazis, they didn't have to lift their kipa off their head... the people in the camps who continued to practice their faith, even fasting in a place where daily life looked like fasting...
The beauty of educating about this type of resistance is that it enables me to teach my students that being a hero doesn't always look the same. Sometimes it's being the only person in a class who tells a teacher when there is a derogatory group message or a twitter ridicule. Sometimes it's making a choice to befriend everyone, no matter what one's social group has to say about it. Sometimes it's speaking up for your faith or your race or your nationality.
It also enlarges the view of the heroic for all of us. In all of our lives, someone (or many someone's) are watching. They are watching our Christians responded to the Supreme Court ruling on homosexual marriage, how Southerners responded to the Confederate flag question, how Americans responded to domestic terror. My students watched my response to all of those things, and many more, on social media. My daughters watch my response to the homeless man in the grass beside Walmart. I always use a piece with my students when I teach personal responsibility called "Always Go to the Funeral". It has a few lines in it that are so powerful to me:
I think about Ghandi, about Martin Luther King, Jr., about so many throughout history who have proven that sometimes the harder fight (and more effective one) takes the path of nonviolent resistance. Resistance in the Holocaust took on many forms other than that of partisan fighters... it was cultural, it was spiritual.
The mother who gave her piece of bread to her starving child... the artists who drew and painted with anything they could find on scraps of paper, rocks, walls, and fabric... the teenagers who scribbled poetry and journal entries on pieces of trash... the doctors in the Warsaw Ghetto who knew they were starving and so decided to do studies on themselves as they starved to death, leaving behind a study called Hunger and Disease in the Warsaw Ghetto: Non Omnis Moriar ("I Shall Not Wholly Die"), which was found after the Holocaust and used in medical schools for years afterward... the exams given to students in clandestine schools in the Lodz Ghetto because "God forbid we come to the end of this experience and have a generation of idiots"... the men who wore hats over their kipas so that, in saluting the Nazis, they didn't have to lift their kipa off their head... the people in the camps who continued to practice their faith, even fasting in a place where daily life looked like fasting...
The beauty of educating about this type of resistance is that it enables me to teach my students that being a hero doesn't always look the same. Sometimes it's being the only person in a class who tells a teacher when there is a derogatory group message or a twitter ridicule. Sometimes it's making a choice to befriend everyone, no matter what one's social group has to say about it. Sometimes it's speaking up for your faith or your race or your nationality.
It also enlarges the view of the heroic for all of us. In all of our lives, someone (or many someone's) are watching. They are watching our Christians responded to the Supreme Court ruling on homosexual marriage, how Southerners responded to the Confederate flag question, how Americans responded to domestic terror. My students watched my response to all of those things, and many more, on social media. My daughters watch my response to the homeless man in the grass beside Walmart. I always use a piece with my students when I teach personal responsibility called "Always Go to the Funeral". It has a few lines in it that are so powerful to me:
"In my humdrum life, the daily battle hasn't been good versus evil. It's hardly so epic. Most days, my real battle is doing good versus doing nothing."
The Sound (and Lights) and the FURY
One of our more humorous experiences of the trip happened the night of the Tower of David Sound and Lights show. We got back from class and had almost two hours before we were supposed to meet (those who wanted to) for our optional excursion to the Sound and Lights show. A little group of us girls decided to go eat dinner at "my restaurant" in Mamilla Mall before the show and just planned to meet the rest of the group outside the Tower of David. Our meal took a little longer than we anticipated but we left in plenty of time to get to (what we thought was) the appointed meeting place at the appointed time.
So we waited... and waited... and waited... and finally I went to the Tower to see if they might have already gone in and the person working the entry said the Yad Vashem group was already inside the walls. I went back and got my buddies and we went in where we caught sight of the backs of a few of our group members as they were swallowed up by the crowd entering the courtyard where the show took place. We asked at the gate if we could go in (without tickets) since our group had already entered and they refused, sending us to the ticket window. We tried the ticket window and explained that our group left us without our tickets. They refused to allow us to enter, even though they had proof of payment for 37 from Yad Vashem. The man at the gate came to talk to the ticket sellers (all of this in an unknown tongue... ;) ) and then we were sent back to a younger guy at the gate. Meanwhile, ALL of the waiting crowd had gone in and the show was soon to start. A teenage girl and her mom was at the gate, listening to all of this transpire. The younger girl kept talking to the boy at the gate and I gathered she was working on our behalf (in Hebrew).
Finally, the man who was in charge came to the gate and told the boy he could not allow us to go in, no matter what all we offered (including getting our tickets and bringing them back, getting a group member to bring them out, etc). At that point, the mother of this teenage girl starts LETTING THE OLDER MAN HAVE IT. I mean, she was wearing him out. They kept screaming back and forth at each other in Hebrew and we were basically just swiveling heads like people at a tennis match. I also caught myself nodding along with her, which was hilarious considering I had no clue what she was saying. FINALLY, she must have prevailed because he agreed to let one of us go in to find our group and the other two had to go all the way around the Tower of David to the exit, meeting the one who went in for the tickets. (This is what lead to my roommate, Tiffany, crawling up and down rows in the dark whispering, "Yad Vashem! Yad Vashem!" which is basically the equivalent of whispering, "Holocaust Museum! Holocaust Museum!" in a dark movie theater in the US...)
As we turned to run around to the exit, I looked at the lady and her daughter and said, "Thank you all so very much. We REALLY appreciate it." She said, "I told him I was ASHAMED he treat you this way! ASHAMED of my countryman, treating guests like that!" :) I walked away with a newfound resolve to speak up more often when I see situations where I can help someone out, especially when there is a language barrier.
That angry Israeli lady was our friend that night. :)
So we waited... and waited... and waited... and finally I went to the Tower to see if they might have already gone in and the person working the entry said the Yad Vashem group was already inside the walls. I went back and got my buddies and we went in where we caught sight of the backs of a few of our group members as they were swallowed up by the crowd entering the courtyard where the show took place. We asked at the gate if we could go in (without tickets) since our group had already entered and they refused, sending us to the ticket window. We tried the ticket window and explained that our group left us without our tickets. They refused to allow us to enter, even though they had proof of payment for 37 from Yad Vashem. The man at the gate came to talk to the ticket sellers (all of this in an unknown tongue... ;) ) and then we were sent back to a younger guy at the gate. Meanwhile, ALL of the waiting crowd had gone in and the show was soon to start. A teenage girl and her mom was at the gate, listening to all of this transpire. The younger girl kept talking to the boy at the gate and I gathered she was working on our behalf (in Hebrew).
Finally, the man who was in charge came to the gate and told the boy he could not allow us to go in, no matter what all we offered (including getting our tickets and bringing them back, getting a group member to bring them out, etc). At that point, the mother of this teenage girl starts LETTING THE OLDER MAN HAVE IT. I mean, she was wearing him out. They kept screaming back and forth at each other in Hebrew and we were basically just swiveling heads like people at a tennis match. I also caught myself nodding along with her, which was hilarious considering I had no clue what she was saying. FINALLY, she must have prevailed because he agreed to let one of us go in to find our group and the other two had to go all the way around the Tower of David to the exit, meeting the one who went in for the tickets. (This is what lead to my roommate, Tiffany, crawling up and down rows in the dark whispering, "Yad Vashem! Yad Vashem!" which is basically the equivalent of whispering, "Holocaust Museum! Holocaust Museum!" in a dark movie theater in the US...)
As we turned to run around to the exit, I looked at the lady and her daughter and said, "Thank you all so very much. We REALLY appreciate it." She said, "I told him I was ASHAMED he treat you this way! ASHAMED of my countryman, treating guests like that!" :) I walked away with a newfound resolve to speak up more often when I see situations where I can help someone out, especially when there is a language barrier.
That angry Israeli lady was our friend that night. :)
Monday, July 27, 2015
Palmach
Now, the Palmach (you really need to hear me say it because I'm getting really good at the throat clearing sort of sounds that the Israeli's make) Museum... WOW. I am so aggravated that we didn't bring Emma and Kelsey here in October because the would have LOVED it. It is a tribute to the Palmach, the partisan fighters who were the first version of the Israeli Defense Force. I am amazed at their story and the bravery they exhibited with so little during those early days of freedom. The museum itself was incredible, because you progress from room to room, following a video that is the story of a group of them. However, each room is like a movie set and the video projects on the wall (or screens, or tents, or rocks). There are even SMELLS! The part where they were sitting around the campfire talking, we were sitting on logs and the ROOM SMELLED LIKE A CAMPFIRE. I am ENAMORED.
I also really loved something else that happened. As we went in, there was a wall of black and white photos. I glanced at them as we went in and appreciated them for their beauty. I was even remotely interested in the subjects, but not profoundly so. When we came out, we walked by those photos again. I couldn't make myself walk away because those photos... they meant something. Those PEOPLE meant something. I now had a connection with them. I took a photo of part of the wall (second from the bottom here) and realized that is exactly my goal in Holocaust Literature... I want my students to connect, to connect PERSONALLY with the subjects. If I do that, I have accomplished something valuable.
A Drink of Home from the Sea of Galilee
One week in to our trip, on our first "optional excursion" day, we had a guided tour to Galilee. Much of the day was a repeat of the whirlwind taxi-driver-led Galilee day Kraig and the girls and I had in October, but a few stops were new. Those included the absolutely most beautiful place I have ever seen, St. Paul's Primacy, a church nestled on the beaches of the Sea of Galilee, the site of the Sermon on the Mount, which had closed just as we arrived in October, and a boat ride on the Sea of Galilee.
I'm going to address the topic of religion several more times in these blog posts, and each time I feel a need to include the following disclaimer:Something really strange happened to me on the boat ride on the Sea of Galilee. I had been looking extremely forward to it because A. I have a massive crush on that body of water and B. I love boat rides, but it ended up being so much more than that.
I went to this seminar knowing very well that Judaism was going to be the religion of focus. I mean, HELLO. Israel, the Holocaust... I'm not stupid. I was very interested in learning more, as I feel that my pretty basic knowledge is a little lacking in that section of my Holocaust Lit class. I will also say, up front, that there are many aspects of Judaism that I think we Christians would do well to adopt, aspects such as the attentiveness to the history and many of the traditions. I have in the past, and probably will more in the future, celebrated certain holidays and observed certain traditions. The part I did NOT expect from this experience (and again, bear with me while I explain) is for all of Christianity to be lumped together in one sect: Catholicism. Certainly I didn't expect much in the way of evangelical, Pentecostal tradition, but at the very least I assumed it would be generic Christianity and thus include Protestantism. TO MY CATHOLIC FRIENDS, this is in no way meant to be any sort of slam at you AT ALL. I do not take anything away from your faith and beliefs as fellow Christians, just as I really do not take anything away from Judaism. I am just pointing out that I was caught off guard by the lack of reference to anything Protestant and the assumption that all Christianity was Catholic. I think a lot of my naiveté probably had to do with where I live. I am heavily in the majority where I live and Catholics are a tiny minority. (It should also be noted, and likely will be explored in a later post, that this was one of my first and only experiences in being the minority in ANY way, which I also found to be a helpful experience as I teach the Holocaust and other social issues.) OK. Now that we are all on the same page, let me go on.
The ride itself was soothing to my soul in a way that only being on water is to me. There is nothing on earth as peaceful as being in a boat, watching the gentle waves lap against the sides, and feeling the calming breeze. At that point, only one week in, the rest of the group was still pretty unknown. I was close to my roommate, Tiffany, and had talked to a few other people, but largely I still felt somewhat on guard in the way that you do when you are faced with the unknown. I leaned back against the wooden side of that boat and just felt the most tremendous release. The boat captain had already told us that his company is the only Christian company on the Sea of Galilee and that he would like to share his story at some point in the journey.
Once we got out into open water, he stopped the boat and told us his own salvation story and that his salvation had happened on a boat on the Sea of Galilee. Then he told us he would like to play some music for us as we returned to the dock. That is when, for the first time in a week, I realized that I had been homesick for MY faith, for MY Jesus. He played "How Great is Our God", "Here I Am to Worship", and several other songs that are songs I HEAR ON SUNDAY MORNINGS! :) I'm not even kidding, I came pretty close to a Pentecostal experience out there on that boat. (I'm thinking THAT would have shocked some people, for sure! HAhahah!) I just sat and let the words pour over me, seep into my spirit, minister to my soul... Looking out on that water and knowing that His feet walked across those waves, hearing "You're altogether lovely, altogether worthy, altogether wonderful to me"... It is a moment I will never forget as long as I live. This on a trip of MANY of those moments... I will always be grateful to that Christian boat captain (of a boat named "Faith", in fact) for providing me with a time to renew my strength and drink in a little bit of HOME.
Sunday, July 26, 2015
Get to the Garden
To return to my really unnerving experience in Jerusalem early in my trip, I want to further explore my experience at the Garden Tomb.
First of all, I know that this is a contested site of His burial and, honestly, most people I respect do NOT think it's the actual burial spot. Do you know what else? I don't care one whit. All I know is that both times I have been in that Garden, I have felt an overwhelming sense of His presence. Was He once buried there? Who knows. Does His presence live there right now for me, in an almost palpable sense? YES.
After my harrowing and frustrating trek through the Old City and the streets around Damascus Gate, after being almost trapped in the bus terminal and being denied access out at any juncture by police and military checkpoints, walking into that Garden felt like the oil of Peace was flowing through my being. I limped in and immediately heard the violin strains of "Great is Thy Faithfulness". I sat down on a bench near the entry and the tears leaked out and down my cheeks. I saw for a while, drained of all energy, fear, and sense of my surroundings, until I finally got up and walked down to take a seat near the tomb. The violinist continued to play, and I wept.
There were very few people at the Garden Tomb that day (most people probably were smarter than I), so I had a lot of time to sit, listen to the haunting and beautiful sounds of the violin, reflect, and let the place minister to my spirit and my soul. As I leaned back against the cold stone wall, facing the tomb, I thought about the hour or more it took to get there. In the middle of all of the crowds, the misdirections, the wrong turns, the fear, the frustration, there was one phrase rattling around in my head: "If I can just get to the Garden." The thing is, getting to the Garden Tomb wasn't going to completely change my circumstances. I was still going to have to leave, go back into the crowds and heat and weariness, and somehow find my way "home". But I knew that, as soon as I made it to the Garden, I could sit and breathe, rest my feet, drink some cool water, and settle my nerves. It truly represented a Refuge for me on that day.
How many times is this a metaphor for our daily lives? We push through the crowds, take what we assume will be the easy and correct path, only to find blockades and wrong turns and misdirections? We get frustrated, we have tears of anger and dissatisfaction, then the whole experience turns frightening? But in the midst of it all, our heart knows that we just need to get to the Garden. If we can just get to the place (emotionally, spiritually, figuratively) where we feel His presence the most, we can soak in enough peace to get us back out into the fray and "home". I think it's important to know where those places are in our own lives, and also to recognize the signs when we start to near breakdown point so that we can get to the Garden in time to let the calming balm pour over us.
How many times is this a metaphor for our daily lives? We push through the crowds, take what we assume will be the easy and correct path, only to find blockades and wrong turns and misdirections? We get frustrated, we have tears of anger and dissatisfaction, then the whole experience turns frightening? But in the midst of it all, our heart knows that we just need to get to the Garden. If we can just get to the place (emotionally, spiritually, figuratively) where we feel His presence the most, we can soak in enough peace to get us back out into the fray and "home". I think it's important to know where those places are in our own lives, and also to recognize the signs when we start to near breakdown point so that we can get to the Garden in time to let the calming balm pour over us.
The Girl Who Left Israel
Written en route from JFK to Atlanta, July 24, 2015:
Everybody around me on this plane is sleeping and I’m caught up in reflection. I know we say the same about school years, childhoods, and relationships, but I can’t get over the paradox of time during this seminar. When I rode that Sherrut back to Tel Aviv from Jerusalem last night, it felt like it had been YEARS since my nervous cab ride in the middle of the night on July 4. However, it also felt like it was just a minute earlier.
I am overwhelmed with gratitude for the grace I received for this trip. The decision to go was an incredible struggle, even though I knew beyond a shadow of a doubt that it was something I was meant to do. I miss my girls and Kraig when we are apart even for a night, much less almost half of the summer. And have I ever mentioned my anxiety on this blog? ;) I imagine the worst in every scenario and worry when I hear news of a wreck on a road that a family member MIGHT be on. I wasn’t sure how I was going to handle being across the world for this extended period of time. BUT GOD. While I thought about them often and missed them with a sweet ache, I never felt plagued with deep sadness at being gone. The moment of leaving, as I expected it to be, was so difficult and filled with tears, but the rest of the trip was just a time to rest in His grace. I worried when I got news of the shootings in Chattanooga, had one period of panic when I couldn’t reach anyone while they were at the beach, and had one evening of some … I wouldn’t even call it homesickness, per se, but SOMETHING… but other than those brief times, I was so comfortable and content. It was honestly a miracle of His goodness and I am so very thankful for this chance.
So many pieces of the experience grated against the very fiber of my being, or what I THOUGHT was my being… traveling alone, BEING alone, not knowing anyone, leaving my people, losing three weeks of my summer. I’m not the girl who does things by herself. I had eaten two meals alone in a restaurant in my life (prior to this trip). I try to time my arrival to parties and other social gatherings when someone I know is also going to be there if I can't just ride with them, which is my preference. I was sad this past school year when I found myself alone at lunch on a field trip to Nashville. I also guard my summer like a bulldog, consider my weeks off as gifts that belong to my family and me.
As much as I gained insofar as knowledge and experience on this trip, I think the self-discoveries I made at least equal the rest in value. I want to be careful what I say here and how I say it…
When you are born in a place, a small town, and you grow up, go to college, marry, get a job (at your alma mater), have kids, and start to grow old all in the same place, something gets lost along the way sometimes. That something is YOU. Over the course of a lifetime, people change. And sometimes, when you remain in the same place with the same people, that change stays pushed down in those hidden places. This part is so hard to articulate… I hadn’t realized fully that there was a new person inside me because she hadn’t ever had the opportunity, or felt safe enough, to come out. (I see the irony of finding safety and opportunity in the Middle East…) In Israel, my sense of insecurities were gone because no one there had any expectation for me. I could fade into the background of the crowd if I wanted to. I could eat alone in a restaurant and not worry that I would see someone who would pity me for not having friends. I could say no to invitations to the terrace or dinner and not feel bad that I was letting someone down. I could also say YES to trips to the Old City and the craft market without being concerned if anyone else was going to go because I was willing, for the first time in my life, to be the only person doing something. I found that person I have always so admired in many of the people around me, the one who does things because she wants to and doesn’t do others because she doesn’t want to without worrying all the time about everyone else and how it makes her look or not look.
I ran around at night and explored new places with new friends. I navigated streets and city alleyways and found restaurants with single table balconies and bookstores. I sat on the terrace and enjoyed the evening, sipping on a Coke while everyone else had wine. I was ME, and I was also NOT me, or at least not the me who has awakened in this body for the past 37 years.
I have loved Cleveland, have loved living there and growing there and raising a family there. I always say I’m a roots person and that hasn’t changed. I am so thankful for my small hometown and what it means to be part of it. I wouldn’t have even been on this trip were it not for Cleveland and her people. I wouldn’t change a single thing about my life because that road is what brought me here and brought the people into my life who make it so full. But for the first time in my life, I question my college decision. Not necessarily WHERE I went to college, but certainly HOW I went. I had an almost four year relationship from the end of high school through my junior year in college and, due to that, I viewed college as merely a means to an end, a vehicle to get me to my degree, a hallway I had to go through to reach the living room of real life. I didn’t bother to get to know anyone in my classes, to attend any college activities, to connect in any way with student life other than my activities with the Honors Program. I had a chance on this trip, for the first time ever, to live the life of a college student. I had no responsibilities other than classes and my daily phone call home, no one was depending on me for anything, and I was only accountable to myself. I regret that I allowed a relationship to keep me from studying abroad, that I missed so much living by treading water.
In these three weeks, I made close, special new friends and had fun with new acquaintances and avoided people with whom I didn’t connect or who made me feel uncomfortable. I realized that, in large part, I have spent my life believing that people like me because they have to, that most friendships are based on habit and convenience and not choice. I have always felt like I was in the right place at the right time with the right connections and that’s why I have the relationships that I have. I’m not saying they aren’t true and authentic relationships, just that people wouldn’t seek me out to befriend but rather it’s a matter of circumstance. I have said for my entire teaching career that I am a well-liked teacher because my very first group of tenth grade honors kids and I had a great connection, they were good people and well-known, and they built a reputation for me through word-of-mouth. I think it could have easily gone the other way, had it not been for that first group. They liked me and I liked them and we developed a symbiotic relationship that has continued through the years with all of my kids. I loved teaching in year one because of those kids. Therefore, I started year two with a passion for education, those kids sensed that AND had heard good things from the kids in year one, and so we did well with each other. That year fed my enthusiasm and love and passion even more, etc, etc, etc.. In Israel, I made deep and lasting friendships with people who saw ME. Just me. Not the me who is friends with this person or the me who taught that person or the me who goes to this church or the me who is involved in this ministry or the me who is related to this person or the me who does this or that… just ME. The real, complete ME. And they liked me. And they chose to hang out with me and ask me to do things with them. And it was good.
I don’t know if this discovery of my true self is something that will be apparent to those around me once I return or not. (I feel like all of this is probably making people think I’m going to abandon my family and run off to another country to live. Not the case at all.) It truly doesn’t matter if it is or it isn’t, because I found her and I like her and I want to keep her. I hope I will have the strength to do so. I hope I won’t slip back into my old insecurities and desires to go along, even if they are comfortable and fit me like a favorite pair of jeans. I found a strength of individuality and character that I never knew I had and it will die if I don’t nourish it. As this plane nears Atlanta and my precious corner of the world, I am clinging to the hope that the girl who left Israel is the same one who is going home to Tennessee.
Everybody around me on this plane is sleeping and I’m caught up in reflection. I know we say the same about school years, childhoods, and relationships, but I can’t get over the paradox of time during this seminar. When I rode that Sherrut back to Tel Aviv from Jerusalem last night, it felt like it had been YEARS since my nervous cab ride in the middle of the night on July 4. However, it also felt like it was just a minute earlier.
I am overwhelmed with gratitude for the grace I received for this trip. The decision to go was an incredible struggle, even though I knew beyond a shadow of a doubt that it was something I was meant to do. I miss my girls and Kraig when we are apart even for a night, much less almost half of the summer. And have I ever mentioned my anxiety on this blog? ;) I imagine the worst in every scenario and worry when I hear news of a wreck on a road that a family member MIGHT be on. I wasn’t sure how I was going to handle being across the world for this extended period of time. BUT GOD. While I thought about them often and missed them with a sweet ache, I never felt plagued with deep sadness at being gone. The moment of leaving, as I expected it to be, was so difficult and filled with tears, but the rest of the trip was just a time to rest in His grace. I worried when I got news of the shootings in Chattanooga, had one period of panic when I couldn’t reach anyone while they were at the beach, and had one evening of some … I wouldn’t even call it homesickness, per se, but SOMETHING… but other than those brief times, I was so comfortable and content. It was honestly a miracle of His goodness and I am so very thankful for this chance.
So many pieces of the experience grated against the very fiber of my being, or what I THOUGHT was my being… traveling alone, BEING alone, not knowing anyone, leaving my people, losing three weeks of my summer. I’m not the girl who does things by herself. I had eaten two meals alone in a restaurant in my life (prior to this trip). I try to time my arrival to parties and other social gatherings when someone I know is also going to be there if I can't just ride with them, which is my preference. I was sad this past school year when I found myself alone at lunch on a field trip to Nashville. I also guard my summer like a bulldog, consider my weeks off as gifts that belong to my family and me.
As much as I gained insofar as knowledge and experience on this trip, I think the self-discoveries I made at least equal the rest in value. I want to be careful what I say here and how I say it…
When you are born in a place, a small town, and you grow up, go to college, marry, get a job (at your alma mater), have kids, and start to grow old all in the same place, something gets lost along the way sometimes. That something is YOU. Over the course of a lifetime, people change. And sometimes, when you remain in the same place with the same people, that change stays pushed down in those hidden places. This part is so hard to articulate… I hadn’t realized fully that there was a new person inside me because she hadn’t ever had the opportunity, or felt safe enough, to come out. (I see the irony of finding safety and opportunity in the Middle East…) In Israel, my sense of insecurities were gone because no one there had any expectation for me. I could fade into the background of the crowd if I wanted to. I could eat alone in a restaurant and not worry that I would see someone who would pity me for not having friends. I could say no to invitations to the terrace or dinner and not feel bad that I was letting someone down. I could also say YES to trips to the Old City and the craft market without being concerned if anyone else was going to go because I was willing, for the first time in my life, to be the only person doing something. I found that person I have always so admired in many of the people around me, the one who does things because she wants to and doesn’t do others because she doesn’t want to without worrying all the time about everyone else and how it makes her look or not look.
I ran around at night and explored new places with new friends. I navigated streets and city alleyways and found restaurants with single table balconies and bookstores. I sat on the terrace and enjoyed the evening, sipping on a Coke while everyone else had wine. I was ME, and I was also NOT me, or at least not the me who has awakened in this body for the past 37 years.
I have loved Cleveland, have loved living there and growing there and raising a family there. I always say I’m a roots person and that hasn’t changed. I am so thankful for my small hometown and what it means to be part of it. I wouldn’t have even been on this trip were it not for Cleveland and her people. I wouldn’t change a single thing about my life because that road is what brought me here and brought the people into my life who make it so full. But for the first time in my life, I question my college decision. Not necessarily WHERE I went to college, but certainly HOW I went. I had an almost four year relationship from the end of high school through my junior year in college and, due to that, I viewed college as merely a means to an end, a vehicle to get me to my degree, a hallway I had to go through to reach the living room of real life. I didn’t bother to get to know anyone in my classes, to attend any college activities, to connect in any way with student life other than my activities with the Honors Program. I had a chance on this trip, for the first time ever, to live the life of a college student. I had no responsibilities other than classes and my daily phone call home, no one was depending on me for anything, and I was only accountable to myself. I regret that I allowed a relationship to keep me from studying abroad, that I missed so much living by treading water.
In these three weeks, I made close, special new friends and had fun with new acquaintances and avoided people with whom I didn’t connect or who made me feel uncomfortable. I realized that, in large part, I have spent my life believing that people like me because they have to, that most friendships are based on habit and convenience and not choice. I have always felt like I was in the right place at the right time with the right connections and that’s why I have the relationships that I have. I’m not saying they aren’t true and authentic relationships, just that people wouldn’t seek me out to befriend but rather it’s a matter of circumstance. I have said for my entire teaching career that I am a well-liked teacher because my very first group of tenth grade honors kids and I had a great connection, they were good people and well-known, and they built a reputation for me through word-of-mouth. I think it could have easily gone the other way, had it not been for that first group. They liked me and I liked them and we developed a symbiotic relationship that has continued through the years with all of my kids. I loved teaching in year one because of those kids. Therefore, I started year two with a passion for education, those kids sensed that AND had heard good things from the kids in year one, and so we did well with each other. That year fed my enthusiasm and love and passion even more, etc, etc, etc.. In Israel, I made deep and lasting friendships with people who saw ME. Just me. Not the me who is friends with this person or the me who taught that person or the me who goes to this church or the me who is involved in this ministry or the me who is related to this person or the me who does this or that… just ME. The real, complete ME. And they liked me. And they chose to hang out with me and ask me to do things with them. And it was good.
I don’t know if this discovery of my true self is something that will be apparent to those around me once I return or not. (I feel like all of this is probably making people think I’m going to abandon my family and run off to another country to live. Not the case at all.) It truly doesn’t matter if it is or it isn’t, because I found her and I like her and I want to keep her. I hope I will have the strength to do so. I hope I won’t slip back into my old insecurities and desires to go along, even if they are comfortable and fit me like a favorite pair of jeans. I found a strength of individuality and character that I never knew I had and it will die if I don’t nourish it. As this plane nears Atlanta and my precious corner of the world, I am clinging to the hope that the girl who left Israel is the same one who is going home to Tennessee.
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